Hunt the Scorpion

Chapter Nine

The sky was pitch black by the time the NATO helicopter landed at the airport in Sirte, which was some 280 miles southeast of Tripoli. The town of seventy-five thousand was the birthplace of Muammar Gaddafi and the place where he had been captured and killed on October 20 of the preceding year. The airport and terminal still showed signs of the recent fighting: damaged and pockmarked buildings, the rusting carcass of a tank with slogans painted on it in white, pickup trucks with mounted antiaircraft guns and.50-caliber guns in back, their barrels pointed at the sky but covered with tarps.

Leo Debray had called ahead and arranged for a NATO rep to meet Crocker in the terminal. Since it was a personal matter, he had decided not to bring any members of his team.

Crocker found the rep standing in the entrance under a flickering fluorescent light in his olive-green uniform, a Canadian major with a gleaming shaved head. Behind him local men were sweeping the floor and collecting trash. The airport was closed for the night.

Major Cummings said, “Your wife and Mr. Shaw were booked to fly on a Libyan Airlines flight at nine this morning. Service at this airport has been spotty because several members of the control tower staff disappeared during the recent fighting. The upshot is, the flight didn’t take off until eleven. Your wife and Mr. Shaw weren’t on it. It was the only flight that left this airport bound for Tripoli today.”

“So they couldn’t have caught a later flight?”

“No. That was the only one.”

“Did they call and change their reservation?”

“Apparently not.”

“You checked?”

“Yes, sir. And I checked the passenger list for the flight that left at eleven. Your wife and Mr. Shaw’s names aren’t on it.”

“How accurate are those lists?”

“I wouldn’t bet the farm on them.”

“What about a military flight or a private plane?”

“Chances are they would have left from this airport, and there’s no record of any flight bound for Tripoli this afternoon.”

The fact remained that Holly hadn’t been heard from. Calls to her cell phone went unanswered. Nobody had seen or heard from her since yesterday.

Crocker ran through other possibilities as he followed the Canadian up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor. The odds that they had decided to drive to Tripoli were remote. One, the road was dangerous and passed through numerous checkpoints. Two, Holly and Brian didn’t have a car, which meant they would have had to hire one.

Still, he held out hope. Holly was resourceful and generally lucky. She knew how to handle herself.

The airport manager was a little man, coffee-skinned with a wispy gray beard and hair. A framed photograph of President Barack Obama hung behind his desk. It turned out he had spent a year at Baylor University and spoke decent English. “The last time anyone saw your wife was yesterday afternoon,” he said. “She missed her flight today. That’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid.”

Crocker asked, “Do you have any idea where she stayed last night?”

The airport manager rubbed his head. “Nobody comes here anymore, so the hotels are all closed. You’re sure they stayed the night?”

“Yes. That’s what they told the embassy.”

The manager nodded and left.

Through the open window Crocker heard a woman’s wailing voice. He couldn’t understand the words she was singing but was moved by the sadness behind them.

Was it possible that Holly had decided to stay another night? Why?

He hated the thought, but a hookup wasn’t out of the question. Holly was an attractive woman, Brian a good-looking younger man who had recently left his wife. Crocker hadn’t seen Holly for almost a month. He hadn’t spoken to her in weeks.

The station manager returned with a smile. Holding up a finger, he said, “I have the answer. How? Because I found the man who drove your wife and her friend to the house where they’re staying. This man is downstairs now, in front of the terminal.”

Outside, bullet holes and craters from rocket attacks marked every building. Many of the streetlights were damaged; burnt-out hulks of cars lined the street.

To their right, three men sat on the curb sipping coffee out of glass cups. One of them, an older man with badly bowed legs, rose and approached cautiously. He pointed to a black-and-white Datsun cab and nodded. Crocker and the Canadian opened the back door and got in.

It felt like a fever dream-the destruction everywhere, the savagery he’d witnessed here and throughout the Middle East, the empty streets, stars sparkling in the sky above, fresh air blowing in from the sea, the moon a crescent resembling an off-kilter smile.

The driver hummed to himself as he drove. Displayed on the dashboard was a laminated photograph of his family framed in black cloth, with a bouquet of dried flowers clipped to the top.

The city seemed abandoned. Crocker looked for lights in the houses they passed, like signs of hope.

After about ten miles the driver stopped at a one-story house set back from the beach. It sat on an incline and was topped by a white wall that almost reached the roof. Because of the angle, Crocker was able to see lights on inside.

“Give me a minute,” he said, turning to the Canadian major. “I’ll be right back.”

“Call me if you need me.”

No buzzer at the front door, so he tried knocking.

Once, twice, a third time so hard the door shook.

No answer. The front wall was too high to climb, so he pushed past some low shrubs and descended along the side. The property ended at the beach, where gentle waves washed across the sand. A second door sat in the middle of the back wall. No bell or buzzer there, either, so he hoisted himself up, put his foot on the knob, and climbed over, past palm trees that rattled overhead. The lights were on in the oval pool. Someone had left a white towel and an old issue of Us magazine by one of the lounge chairs.

It struck Crocker as a strange place for two professional colleagues to spend the night. Seemed more fitting for a romantic vacation.

Doubts started to stalk him. As he peered through the patio window he tried to remember precisely when he had spoken to Holly last and what they had discussed. There wasn’t much to see-modern living room furniture, a vase filled with peacock feathers, a fireplace that opened to both sides of the house.

The patio door wasn’t locked, so he slid it open and stepped in.

Saw a light and heard murmuring voices from inside.

This was starting to remind him of a movie scene where the husband returns home unexpectedly to find another man sleeping with his wife.

Holly would never do that.

Right?

He followed the light and voices up two steps and stopped. His heart seemed to be beating in his throat.

He tried to prepare himself. Took a deep breath.

What if I find them together? What will I do then?

He blocked out these thoughts and concentrated instead on the sounds: a rumble of waves crashing in the background, the low murmur of voices from the room. Bracing himself, he entered. The light came from a lamp on the far side of the bed. The sheets and coverlet had been pulled aside but the bed was empty. The murmuring sound was coming from a television on the opposite wall. He looked for signs of Holly and saw an open lipstick on the dresser alongside the white-handled brush she always carried in her purse, a pair of her running shoes on the floor.

She’s still here!

Where?

Turning, he crossed along the front of the house through a long kitchen and dining area to a hallway on the far end. The bathroom door was open, the toilet inside running.

One door at the end of the hall; another behind him. He opened the one ahead and entered, let his eyes adjust to the darkness. The place was a mess-clothes, men’s shoes, and papers strewn across the floor, the sheets pulled off a bed, a chair turned over. The dresser drawers emptied.

Crocker pulled aside the curtains so the moonlight streamed in and quickly confirmed that there was no one in the room.

His heart beating wildly, he spun and doubled back to the front of the house. Alarms were going off in his head.

A faint bluish light spilled out the bottom of the door. He clenched his fists and entered.

The first thing he noticed was the light from the desk lamp filling the small rectangular room with strange shadows. Next, his eyes focused on a single bed. In the folds of the covers Crocker saw a shiny object he identified as a six-inch kitchen knife.

Then he noticed a pool of blood on the floor near the desk. Stepping past the bed, he saw a man’s body lying facedown. The back of his head had been blasted off, indicating an exit wound.

Instinctively, Crocker felt for an artery on his neck to confirm that he was dead. No pulse.

Lifting the body under the shoulders, he turned it over carefully.

It didn’t resemble Brian Shaw or anyone else he recognized. Poor fellow looked to be a local-dark skin, hair, and eyes, a couple of days’ growth of beard.

Crocker set the body back down, relieved and unsettled-relieved that his worst fears hadn’t been confirmed, unsettled because he realized that something equally terrible had happened. A man had been killed, and Holly and Brian were missing.

He wanted to run and find her but had no idea where to go.

He also felt violated.

Nobody touches my wife and gets away with it. No one!

The whoop-whoop-whoop of the helicopter blades still echoed in his head as he sat in a comfortable leather chair in Ambassador Saltzman’s office. Air-conditioned air tickled his nose. He wanted to sneeze but caught himself. The ambassador sat behind his desk speaking into a cordless phone.

Crocker had remained in Sirte the previous night with a group of Canadian soldiers who worked the scene. Canucks, they called themselves. Good guys who loved the North African weather but missed their girlfriends back home. All the female residents of the city were hiding, they reported as they gathered evidence from the house, searched the area, and set up local roadblocks, all in a frenzy.

They’d come up with practically nothing. The deceased man in the house turned out to be the caretaker, a Libyan engineering student named Ali ak-Riyyad, twenty-one years old. The owners had fled to Morocco before the war and hadn’t returned. When friends and family members weren’t using the place, they rented it to visitors.

Holly and Brian Shaw had learned about the house from the man who ran the information desk at the airport. They had driven there in a cab two afternoons ago. Judging from the condition of Ali’s body, the attack had taken place in the early morning hours of the following day, approximately eighteen hours before Crocker arrived.

Shoe marks and handprints indicated that the attackers had climbed over the front wall and entered the house through an open kitchen window. They had exited out the front door. Someone had been injured, because drops of blood were spotted leading outside.

Now, sunlight streamed in through a crack in the curtains of the ambassador’s office. A quick glance at his watch showed Crocker it was almost one in the afternoon.

“Please, general, this is a priority. You must do everything in your power,” Saltzman said into the phone, “and act quickly. The last thing we want is for this to reach the press.”

The last sentence jarred Crocker’s attention. Who gives a shit about the press?

He looked up. Remington sat across from him, next to a framed photograph of the ambassador standing next to the Clintons. He was writing something on a yellow pad as the ambassador spoke.

“No. Absolutely not,” the ambassador continued. “We haven’t heard anything here. I’ll let you know as soon as we do. Remember, speed is of the utmost importance. Yes. Yes. Thanks.”

He hung up, undid the top button of his white oxford shirt, and called, “Nancy, find Leo Debray and tell him I want to see him.”

Crocker was picturing Holly-the way her long brown hair framed her face, the warmth in her brown eyes, the fullness of her lips. She was strong, but delicate inside.

Amazing woman…Grace under pressure…A beautiful, compassionate soul…

He jerked his head up when he heard his name. “Crocker? Warrant Officer Crocker?”

“Yes, sir.”

“This is a terrible situation. I wish I knew you and your wife better.”

Strange thing to say.

“Why?”

“Why?” The ambassador pulled up a chair, sat directly in front of him, and adjusted his suspenders. “Sometimes people in authority are put in a godawful position. So please excuse me for asking, is there any chance that your wife and Mr. Shaw ran off together?”

It was like a slap in the face. “Why do you ask?”

“Not that I’ve heard anything. No. I’m referring to a spur-of-the-moment decision. Maybe they realized they had some time off and chose to explore the country together.”

“Where would they go?”

“I don’t know. Misrata? Benghazi? One of the towns along the coast?”

Crocker’s throat had turned so dry that he found it difficult to speak. “Why, sir? Has someone said something?”

“No. No. Not at all. I don’t want you to think…”

“Think…what?”

“The fact is that we’ve seen very little residual violence in that area. It’s been more or less completely calm.”

Crocker felt his fists clenching. He wanted to shout something but held back. He took a breath and said, “Sir, the house was attacked. There’s no doubt about that. The caretaker was killed. My wife and Mr. Shaw left behind a good number of their personal belongings.”

“But not their suitcases, correct? Did you find their suitcases?”

This line of questioning was pissing him off. “No, I didn’t, but-”

“It makes one wonder…”

“What, sir? I found my wife’s favorite hairbrush. She takes it with her everywhere. Her grandmother gave it to her. There’s no way in…”

Remington crossed his long legs. He was clearly uncomfortable.

The ambassador rubbed his chin. “I see.”

“See what, sir?”

“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”

Crocker said, “The obvious one is that they’ve been kidnapped.”

Remington jumped in. “Let’s not rush to conclusions. Transportation and communication in this country are both problematic. It’s something we deal with on a daily basis.”

“This is clearly more than a transportation problem.”

“Jumping to conclusions doesn’t help.”

He wanted to shout “Fuck you!” But before he could, the ambassador spoke.

He said, “Crocker, I can assure you that we’ll do everything in our power. Everything. We’re currently deploying all our in-country assets, which are considerable. We’ve got on-the-ground assets; we’ve got drones we can deploy in the air. We’ll find your wife. I promise.”

“Yes, we will,” Remington echoed.

“You can count on us, dammit. I’ll stake my career on that.”

It’s exactly what Crocker wanted to hear. Gazing down at the coat of arms in the rug, he said, “I appreciate that, sir.”

“What good are we, if we can’t look after our own?”

“I agree, sir.”

“Try and get some sleep. You must be exhausted.”

True, he hadn’t slept. But it seemed like a ridiculous idea. Crocker muttered, “I’ll try, sir,” and rose to his feet. His head hung like a huge weight on his shoulders. He wanted to do something to help recover his wife but didn’t know what.

The ambassador said, “I have one request before you leave.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Under no circumstances are you to talk to the press.”

The press. The press? Why would I talk to the press? He didn’t trust what they reported and did everything he could to avoid them. Besides, the presence of SEAL Team Six operators in Libya was supposed to be top secret.

Doesn’t Saltzman know that?

Someone drove him to the guesthouse in a black sedan. An Amy Winehouse song was playing on the stereo. He opened his eyes as the tire wheels crunched on the gravel drive. Birds were singing. Two green parrots with red beaks chased each other past the windshield and into a nearby tree.

He thought he might be dreaming, but then saw the grim, determined faces of Ritchie, Mancini, Akil, and Davis emerging from the house to greet him. They’d heard the news and crowded around him, expressing their sympathy.

Akil: “We’ll get her back.”

Mancini: “Holly’s a tough lady. She’ll be fine.”

Davis: “Just tell us what to do, boss. I’m in.”

Akil: “We all are.”

Ritchie: “Whatever it takes.”

He knew that if he could count on anyone at a time like this, it was his men. “Thanks, guys. Where’s Cal?”

“He went home. Remember?”

Feeling a hundred years old, he sat at the kitchen table and drank a cup of bitter coffee. Mancini stood before him with his hand over the receiver of a satellite phone. “It’s the CO. You want to talk to him?”

“Who?”

“Our CO back at headquarters in Virginia. I’ll tell him you’ll call back.”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Hand me the phone.”

He recognized Alan Sutter’s smooth voice, the distinctive Kentucky accent. Remembered that he had bought land in his native state and planned to retire there and raise horses. Racehorses.

Their CO was saying all the right things-about loyalty, sticking together, praying for Holly, doing anything that could possibly be done.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”

“We’re family, Crocker. Holly’s one of us.”

“I know.” Emotion built in his chest.

His CO paused. He was a no-nonsense guy. Sentimentality didn’t figure into his decisions.

He said, “Crocker, this is a difficult situation for all of us. I pray that the whole thing’s a misunderstanding and Holly shows up untouched.”

“Me, too, sir.”

“But here’s the hard reality. No point pussyfooting around.”

He sensed what was coming and steeled himself.

“You and your men are there to complete an important mission.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Mancini told me that you’re under way but still have a few more sites to inspect.”

“One or two more, sir. That’s correct.”

“Under the circumstances, I should recall you, relieve you of your duties there.”

“Sir-”

His CO raised his voice. “Let me finish!”

“Sorry, sir.”

“But I can’t.”

“Can’t what, sir?”

“Order you back. I know you want to be there close to your wife. I would, too. So I leave that decision up to you.”

Crocker started to get choked up. “Thank you, sir. That means a lot to me.”

Sutter said, “Here’s the situation. I want you to turn over the inspections to Warrant Officer Mancini. I know that you also lost Calvin, so I’m sending two other men.”

“Sir, that won’t be necessary.”

“I think it is.”

“I disagree, sir.”

“Why?”

“First, I have sufficient men with me to complete the inspections. Secondly, I’m perfectly capable of continuing to lead them myself.”

The CO paused, then said, “That doesn’t sound realistic.”

“Trust me, it is, sir.”

“Seriously, Crocker. You mean to tell me you think you can ignore the situation with your wife and continue?”

“A mission is a mission, sir.”

“Dammit, Crocker. Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t get in the way.”

“I won’t, sir. The ambassador has assured me that he has people out there looking for Holly. Frankly, I don’t know the country well enough to know where to start.”

Sutter: “I should probably have my head examined.”

“You make perfect sense to me, sir.”

“If I hear about any interference from you, you’re out of there.”

“I understand.”

“Alright, Crocker. My prayers are with you and your wife. Godspeed.”